


The Dragon And The Rose

by periwinklepromise



Series: Femslash February 2020 [12]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assorted minor characters from Westeros and Essos, F/F, Femslash, Femslash February 2020, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Margaery does not marry Joffrey, Mild Sexual Content, Pining, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22679974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/periwinklepromise/pseuds/periwinklepromise
Summary: Joining the Targaryen Restoration was supposed to be purely political.But now Margaery strolls through the streets of Meereen with the Dragon Queen, her arm lovely warm under Margaery's fingertips, her eyes burning with her pride over the prosperity she sees, and Margaery thinks that maybe this has become – Daenerys flicks her eyes over, smiles brighter – personal.Gods help her.
Relationships: Daenerys Targaryen/Margaery Tyrell
Series: Femslash February 2020 [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619608
Comments: 91
Kudos: 179





	1. The Stag Is Dead

Her husband is dead.

She should feel worse about that than she does.

But she never cared for Renly beyond him making her brother happy, and he had not been able to do that recently. She never had faith in his ability to follow through with his claim like her brother and father had.

She no longer needs to. Joffrey under the Lannister shroud has solidified his claim; the Crown is not as weak as it could be.

So she will take full advantage of that condition. Her grandmother has arranged for her to visit King's Landing and supplant Sansa Stark in the heart of the lion cub. The daughter of a traitor is far harder to forgive than the set-aside wife of one. Especially if she first appears in the finest Reach fashions.

He is a boy, led by fancy. She is a woman grown, and she will have the Iron Throne. She will grow strong.

*

King's Landing is utter shit. Peasants pile up in the streets, starving and scared. Any man with a silver stag struts about as if he owns the place, and any woman who does not have to hike up her own tits she thinks she is as good as queen.

She is invited to stay in the Keep with the royal family in this time of mourning. Not that anyone misses the late King Robert, from what she understands. Certainly not the Dowager Queen, if the rumors are to be trusted. But she has not yet met the young King. She knows he is fair haired, betrothed to Sansa, the daughter of the late Lord Eddard who betrayed his King and conspired for the throne – but not half as much as Renly had tried to convince him to conspire – and the jewel in his mother's eye. She also knows that he has not killed a man, not known a woman, that he has not become his own man.

Yet.

She wears her gown with the most scandalous neckline to court this morning, the lovely lilac with the bronze stitching that plummets down to almost her navel. But the skirts are easy to walk in, and the waist is cinched but not so much that she cannot breathe, which can occasionally be a concern, and she does look quite delicious in it, according to Grandmother.

The King's eyes are on her body from the moment she walks into the room. When he asks for her to speak, she lets her chest heave and her eyes glitter as she fawns over him and his kindness and courage.

He looks to his mother for guidance; by the Gods, he _is_ young. But he must see approval, because when he turns back to her, his eyes hold victory.

Her eyes must hold the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has twelve planned chapters, that will increase in length over time. I will begin publishing in earnest after the rest of Femslash February, but I wanted to get the first chapter out into the world.
> 
> The first lines of this chapter are inspired by The Bad Behavior of Belle Cantrell by Lorraine Despres. Because I think it's totally metal, and super fits Margaery.


	2. The Lion Wins

She convinces King Joffrey to give scraps to the poor in his city. She supervises the distribution of bread and the noble's leftovers throughout the city, gifts the children of King's Landing with little wooden toys, and prepares thoughtful speeches of encouragement and generosity. At every point, she gives the credit to King Joffrey and his endless benevolence. The people of King's Landing do not care whom to thank for the food; they care that they have food.

She has the King's heart in her palm, and his mother hates her for it. She sees the glares like daggers, hears the barbs, and feels the tension under her hands when she grips the Queen's arm as they stroll. The King is falling for her, always watching her, rubbing his clammy hands down her shoulders as he shows her how to aim his crossbow.

But her grandmother has another task for her here in the capital, an important one. She must befriend Sansa Stark. They need an honest answer, and she is the person most likely to give such a thing, about such a subject.

*

Sansa is even younger than King Joff, but quite lovely to look at. She would be an excellent addition to the Tyrell family, and she tells her in so many words as they stroll the royal gardens. Sansa's eyes shine with the promise of affection, and she simply must inform her grandmother to arrange a match.

Once properly flattered and comforted, Sansa confesses. King Joffrey is monstrous, irredeemable. She exchanges a glance with her grandmother. Not easily controlled, too violent, volatile. Not a good investment. This could change things, if she cannot change him.

Things change without them. The Blackwater burns, alight with green flames. Terrifying, yes, but it is a good sign, the color of her House taking the capital. She is the granddaughter of the Queen of Thorns. She can triumph where the rest of her House has failed.

When the fires burn out, and the smoke clears away from the city, many are missing. Sansa has disappeared – some say the Hound took her with him when he fled, others claim Littlefinger secreted her out as a pawn, some say the Queen had her killed and thrown in the Bay for daring to look at her son.

She hopes the last is false, for her own sake. It may no longer be safe in King's Landing, and the King may be too childish to stand up to his mother.

She tells her grandmother.

Her eyes grow cold and hard, and when she lets her hand fall to the arm of her chair, she announces that they will let the Dowager Queen frighten them away. So she shows her nerves when the blonde has enough steel in her eyes to draw blood. She frets as she walks the gardens with the court's spies watching. She lets the boy be disappointed by her, and she bites at her lip when she hears rumors of him bringing in women from the brothels.

When her grandmother approaches the Lannisters again, Lord Tywin agrees to let the betrothal wither. It is the only time his daughter has ever won an argument, she is sure of it.

Grandmother announces at luncheon the next week – the Tyrells are leaving King's Landing.


	3. The Rose Faces The East

She stands near the bow of the ship, looking quizzically at the horizon. They sail to the sun. They should have turned past the Broken Arm towards the Sunset Sea by now.

She makes her way below deck where her grandmother takes her tea. The ship's captain gave his quarters to her the moment she stepped aboard; she could not possibly be expected to break bread with the common folk.

They sail to meet the Dragon Queen.

Her grandmother tells her of the Dragon Queen's successes, her conquests of the slave cities Astapor and Yunkai, her acquisitions of alliances in the Unsullied and the Second Sons. There are rumors that Westerosi knights serve her too. As far as they know, however, none of the high houses of Westeros have dared to support the exile's claim, content to follow the Baratheon line as it leads them. But the line is ending, and the lion's claws are sharp.

A dragon's claws are sharper.

*

The Dragon Queen has agreed to await their arrival in Yunkai, but she has already set her eyes on the Great Harpy of Meereen, the last great city of Slaver's Bay.

She has never visited Essos before. Her ambition has always been set on Westeros, on becoming queen, on marrying a king and ruling through him. Supporting a usurper, the last heir of a defeated dynasty, this has never been in her plans. But Grandmother does not steer her where she should not go. She will guide the Dragon Queen back across the Narrow Sea to the homeland she has never known.

Daenerys Stormborn is not at all what she has imagined. Younger, and more beautiful. It is good the Targaryens did not remain in power in Westeros, else she would have stolen the heart of every man who laid eyes upon her.

Grandmother speaks with her normal barbed tongue, but the conquering queen is not enraged. Her calm is a good mark on her character. When the alliance is struck, they clasp hands, and Grandmother announces she is returning to her son in Highgarden to prepare the Realm for Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons.

She wants to meet them. Three dragons, there are, all different colors. Do they have different temperaments, like hounds and horses do? She cannot ask this favor yet. But they are allies now, and she and her dear brother Loras, it has been agreed, will remain in Essos. She could not agree to this without Loras by her side.

*

Ser Jorah bursts through the marching ranks to inform his Khaleesi that the Usurper's false son and false king Joffrey has died. Poison is the culprit. The Dowager Queen suspects her brother the Imp and has thrown him in the dungeons of the Red Keep.

It is Grandmother's doing, she knows, not Lord Tyrion. They have not received such word because it could not possibly be safe. Grandmother must act without their knowledge; she is not allowing the Realm to know that her grandchildren are even in Essos, let alone marching to Meereen with the Dragon Queen.

When they reach Meereen, the city's high rider is quickly dispatched by the Second Son commander enamored with Daenerys Stormborn, the mercenary Daario Naharis. He is arrogant and brash, but he is loyal. When attempting to conquer half the known world, she supposes it is beneficial to surround oneself with those who are loyal.

The Breaker of Chains sends her trophies to the slaves inside the city. It is her promise to those who need her most, she says. She has come to break their chains too.

She does seem to care an awful lot about the smallfolk she has never met. It is another good mark on her character. She is not only a conqueror. She is a liberator.

This is a woman worth following.


	4. Dragon's Flight

“Margaery?”

She snaps back to the small council meeting. “Yes, Your Grace?”

Violet eyes are fast on hers. “Your thoughts?”

“I urge caution.” This is true no matter the topic. It is best to be cautious, to sit aside the lines and find the advantage.

“I grow weary of caution.” Of course she does. She is the Mother of Dragons; a dragon does not require caution.

The other advisers fall into file as they always do – the lieutenant of the Unsullied called Grey Worm informs her of his ranks, the mercenary Daario Naharis urges her to fly to Westeros alone and burn the Crownlands, the fallen knight Jorah Mormont reminds his _khaleesi_ that to kill while conquering makes her queen of no one.

“She would still be the Queen of the Bay,” Margaery reminds the room with raised brow.

“Not if she cannot hold Astapor and Yunkai. This great city poses its own problems. The people's cries for the return of the arena are a dull roar.” The Imp has been brought to Essos by the Spider and Jorah Mormont, and he is already being won over by her fire. The claim of Queen Daenerys grows stronger.

*

It is high sun when the harpies attack. There is blood and gold and sand and steel, the Unsullied press around them as they protect their Mhysa, and then a shadow falls over the arena. Only two of the dragons are imprisoned beneath the pyramid. The third has just arrived.

She has never before seen men burned alive by dragonfire. She does not wish to see it ever again. But the Queen mounts the monster, and Margaery finds herself hoping beyond reason that there is a way to control it.

Then she flees. She leaves her people and her guard and her city burning, flying north where no one can follow.

In the days following, they all eagerly await the dragon and his rider to return.

They wait in vain.

Margaery sees the worried glances her brother sends her away each sunset without a dragon's shadow overhead. He fears they have fallen in with failure once more.

She wishes she could comfort him with honesty. She gives him hollow words instead.

*

The men in love with the missing queen bicker incessantly. They both want to go searching for her, and neither wants the other to succeed. She reminds them that Daario Naharis is their only hold on the Second Sons and that Ser Jorah Mormont provides their best glimpse into the hopes and plans of Daenerys Stormborn as her oldest advisor. She silences Daario before he can jab at Ser Jorah over his age.

With Queen Daenerys gone, all their ties unravel. Lord Tyrion and her brother exchange barbs in good fun, but the war-weathered men of Essos doubt Loras for his good looks and sunny disposition. She does not teach them the way a rose's beauty hides its thorns. They will learn this in their own time.

She sees the suspicious glances her brother sends Ser Jorah. She wishes she could scold him for it, but a slaver and traitor is not the most trustworthy adviser to the Breaker of Chains.

But she smiles at the fallen knight when he enters every room and compliments him on his wisdom all the same. She flatters and flirts with the mercenary and his men. She jests with the Imp and exchanges false secrets with the Spider. She cooes over the bright-eyed scribe Missandei.

Her grandmother will not forgive her if the Essosi alliances fail.

*

When the shadow of death flies over Meereen, there are only cries of hope and joy. Mhysa has returned, and she is followed by all the riders of the Great Grass Sea.

Margaery can feel the change in the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like many across the world, the health crisis has had an impact on my life and thus my writing. While I am not retiring any of my WIPs, I am not working on them as often as I'd like. Please be patient, and be safe!


	5. Words From Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time to discuss their plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not very good at mimicking the way Martin writes, so it sounds a little awkward, but um. An attempt was made?

“The Bay of Dragons is vulnerable. Astapor is under our protection once more, but Yunkai still struggles, and we have not seen the last of the Sons of the Harpy. What will happen to the Bay if you depart, Your Grace?” Lord Tyrion brings to forbearance a pressing concern – the future of all the people freed by the Breaker of Chains, and the cities wherein they live.

There is an uncharacteristic moment of blessed silence in the council room. Margaery takes it upon herself to offer the first suggestion. “Could a ruling council be instated to protect the rights of the common people? To insure the Queen's Peace?”

Cacophony follows.

“Would some of this council have to stay behind to oversee the rest?”

“Should they be based here in Meereen, or is Yunkai of more strategic importance? Could the Unsullied supervise Astapor, and would they even be respected there?”

“What future do you see for this Bay, Your Grace?”

“If our aim is Westeros, _khaleesi_ , perhaps we should let the Bay find its own way.”

“I will _not,_ ” Queen Daenerys insists, “See freed peoples back in chains.”

“So plans must be set for the future of this continent as well,” Lord Tyrion quickly interjects. “Will it be considered a part of the empire proper?”

“The Bay will forever be under the protection of the Dragon Queen. We can create a new position perhaps. A Warden of the Bay. To insure the Queen's Peace,” Queen Daenerys says with a nod to Margaery for the earlier suggestion, “And to deal the Queen's Justice.”

“As for the Free Cities on the coast...”

*

Then the Queen begins to hold war councils for the restoration of the Targaryen line, and the fighting grows louder. Essos is a game to them, children at play in the courtyard shouting what they will do when they are lords and ladies, just as Margaery and Loras shouted and played as children, but Westeros is their home. Queen Daenerys has never been there, of course, but the dragon's share of her advisers have been raised in the Seven Kingdoms.

Some suggest a direct assault on the capital, while others argue they should overtake the rest of the continent first. Lord Tyrion directs the focus on the Lannister family as the power behind the Usurper, Loras worries about Lord Stannis pressing his claim if the Lannisters are merely weakened but not overthrown, and Ser Jorah argues the stubborn Starks will pose their own difficulties.

Queen Daenerys recognizes the need for support across the Realm and dictates messages to be sent to all the Great Houses. She decides that the responses she receives will determine their course.

When the Spider leaves with the letters, and the other advisers hasten to their other duties – receiving reports from the lieutenants of the Unsullied or the Second Sons, checking in the khalasar that keeps to the outskirts of the city, seeing to the distribution of food and other goods to the common people, counting up the coffers – Margaery moves to the window. It is still odd to see the many colored bricks of Meereen below her instead of the rolling green of the Reach.

“Margaery?”

She turns to Queen Daenerys, standing in the doorway wearing a shockingly white dress. For a moment Margaery wonders how the Queen's ladies ever managed to find such pale cloth, but the sun must play a part. “Missandei and I plan to walk along the central plaza. Would you care to join us?”

“Yes, thank you, Your Grace,” she stands and smooths down her gown. She wishes the Ghiscari cared more for gardens. Along some of the higher terraces in other pyramids, lemons and persimmons grow, but she misses the roses of the Reach. She misses Westeros. If the Dragon Queen decides to leave rulers here in Meereen, Margaery hopes she is not chosen for the duty. She would much prefer to stay by the Queen's side. “That would be lovely.”

*

Lord Stannis has fallen, according to one of the Spider's birds, cut down in a battle in the North against wildlings. With his help, the Starks have regained Winterfell from the dreadful Boltons. One foe fallen, another rising in its place. The Starks are more amenable to handling than the Baratheons or the Boltons. Lord Eddard's insistence on honor passed to his children certainly lessens the chance of a bloodbath brought about by betrayed guestright.

They are far more likely to join the Dragon Queen than the Boltons, but perhaps this is not as likely as Lord Tyrion believes. So easily he forgets how the Targaryen words carry weight. Ser Jorah knows. She can see in his brow the memory of his exile at the hands of the Starks, but his tongue is still.

Then the ravens begin to return, and all the advisers have much to say.

The Reach is guaranteed, of course, and the Vale is amenable but reluctant to leave the safety of their stronghold. The only force dangerous to the Eyrie is the combined might of the Dragon Queen's children, and their defeat is not a certainty.

“What news from Winterfell?”

Lord Tyrion does not respond until Queen Daenerys calls his name, and his eyes fly from the missive to his wine when he reports, “The North declares itself an independent kingdom welcome to trade negotiations with their Targaryen neighbors. They will offer neither support nor any form of aid.”

Queen Daenerys's cheeks are only dashes of pale, petal pink when she responds, “Did you not assure me the Starks would join our just cause to free the people of Westeros from tyranny?”

“An oversight. Lord Eddard's bastard steads in Winterfell now.”

Margaery almost winces. It is a mistake to bob and weave in the face of a foe who can fly. Ingratiating oneself is far more effective, but perhaps outside of the Imp's standard defenses.

“A man with no name claims a kingdom that is mine by right?”

“A man with no name, as you say, Your Grace,” she interjects smoothly, “But a man with a family, all the same. Your late father in his madness did burn his grandfather and uncle alive, and called for the head of his father. This surely would have bred some hostility likely to linger. They say the North remembers, do they not, My Lord?”

“Yes, well said.” Lord Tyrion clears his throat. “And-”

“And the North blames the Lannisters for the beheading of Lord Eddard Stark, the loss of Lady Catelyn, and their eldest to inherit, which perhaps burns brighter in their memory? I have not read the letter, Your Grace, but if they seek the destruction of the Usurper for their own justice, they are beneficial allies to have, if not loyal subjects. Many at this table began as allies and became your advisers. The Starks may yet travel the same path, Your Grace.” Margaery had of course planned to craft this place for herself on the council, but she had not hoped the far-flying Queen would accept her so readily.

Queen Daenerys's gaze is fast upon her, and she cannot flinch. It is a measurement of them both, and she will not fail her Queen by neglecting to keep her abreast of the squabbles of the high houses. Before she manages to break the wheel, if she maintains her word in that regard, the Queen would do well to keep in mind the damage her family has wrought on Westeros. The Starks will certainly remind her, and Margaery will not see her Queen caught flat-footed.

“Very well, then,” Queen Daenerys seems to concede, but her lovely violet eyes are still on Margaery, and they hold a weight she has not seen on such a delicate countenance. The eyes of men are always hungry when they lie upon her, but she is not accustomed to such attention from a woman.

*

“Would you walk with me, Lady Margaery?”

“It would be my honor, Your Grace.” She stands slowly and savors the way the Queen watches her. “Will Missandei be joining us?”

“Not today.” There is a heavy pause before she continues, “You may call me Daenerys.”

“If it please you,” she responds carefully, weighing the words.

“It does.” Queen Daenerys smiles softly, and she seems suddenly young.

As they walk down the pyramid, the Queen speaks of simple matters, gossip more fitting from a kitchen wench's mouth than a khaleesi, and Margery does not doubt herself as slips one arm into her Queen's and places her far hand on the closer bare shoulder. It is a position communicating closeness, an intimate sort of friendship, one that worked wonders on young Sansa and infuriated the old Dowager Queen intent to hate Margaery from the moment she set foot in King's Landing.

She has never needed to stand so close to the Queen before. Even with her hair in so many braids, silver strays float about in a gentle wind. The sun warms her skin, and the strong smell of spices hang heavy in the air around them.

Joining the Dragon Queen was supposed to be purely political, she reminds herself.

But now Margaery strolls through the streets of Meereen with her Queen, her arm lovely warm under Margaery's fingertips, her eyes burning with her pride over the prosperity she sees, and Margaery thinks that maybe this has become – Daenerys flicks her eyes over, smiles brighter – _personal_.

Gods help her.


	6. The Kraken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Complications arise

The Iron Islands do not write. They do not sow.

The Iron Islands have never been indispensable. The Redwyne fleet can match the Iron Fleet on a fine day, and their sailors are far more amiable. House Redwyne is loyal to the Tyrells, and the Tyrells are loyal to the Targaryen Crown. The greatest task for the Queen Across the Sea will be convincing the Dothraki to board the ships and cross the “poison water” for their khaleesi.

Missandei agrees to translate the Dothraki's tales of following Queen Daenerys the Unburnt. They say she was bound and brought to the City of Riders, the only point of congregation for the Dothraki hordes, where all the khalasars were one and no blood could be spilled. She was meant to join the Dosh Khaleen, the wives of fallen khals, but she burned the khals that sought to enslave her. When she stepped out of the flames, naked but unharmed, it was known that she was the Stallion to Mount the World, prophesied to be the strongest khal of all khals, who would lead men without number, their arakhs shining, to trample nations into dust.

“The Stallion? Is this how the Dothraki refer to the Princess That Was Promised?” she asks. Margaery has heard of the High Valyrian prophecy, though much of the details have been lost to history. It is said Jaeherys II heard of the prophecy and believed the savior would be born of his bloodline. Daenerys's bloodline.

“No,” Missandei corrects. “Another prophecy. Daenerys Stormborn has come to fill them all, just as she has freed us all.”

She has her doubts about prophecies and callings and swords made of light, but she supposes if she were the Mother of Dragons, she would believe in the power of prophecy too. “The heir to the Targaryen throne over the Seven Kingdoms, and the head of every Dothraki horde in the Great Grass Sea.” And the mother of three dragons. Has any other woman ever held such power?

Has any other woman ever held such beauty?

*

She does not like this woman.

House Greyjoy did not return their letter because they sent an envoy instead. A dozen ships, with a woman at the helm, the self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands, the King of Salt and Rock. Yara Greyjoy, daughter of the late Balon Greyjoy, the self-fashioned Son of the Sea Wind, who failed to gain independence for his Islands after Robert's Rebellion.

Cocksure as a Lannister without their wit or wealth, tough as a Stark without their silence or stoicism. Tanned. Toned. Wicked smirk on her face, wicked look in her eye as she addresses the Queen.

The best way to distract her is to bare her arms and the sides of her breasts, but there is little to gain from this woman's attention. Margaery does not aim for the Salt Throne, or the Sea Chair, or whatever horrid name by which the ironborn know their pathetic little seat. There has only ever been one throne calling to her.

Yara Greyjoy calls to the woman in the Queen, her history, all the disgusting men who looked down on her for daring to have both teats and ambition.

Then she admits her rule has not been accepted by all the ironborn, that they instead follow her uncle, the new Son of the Sea Wind, Euron Crow's Eye. “He seeks your hand, Your Grace. And some other bits,” she says with a glance and a rude gesture. But she says if the Queen Daenerys helps her gain her little throne, she will bring the Iron Fleet to help claim the Iron Throne for the Dragon.

Lord Tyrion asks if they will give away every kingdom that demands it.

“She's not demanding, she's asking,” Daenerys corrects calmly.

It is perhaps the first time Margaery believes Daenerys is wrong. She sees the shine in the pretender's eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw. If Daenerys rebukes her now, the sailor will try to take her Islands back by her own force, and if she succeeds, she will declare independence from the Throne, as her father did before her.

The Greyjoys are loyal to no one but the sea. But she holds her tongue. She will not sow discord in a delicate alliance. Certainly not with so many ears about, her grandmother has taught her better than that.

Lord Tyrion asks how many kingdoms they will sign away before the Realm is naught but Dragonstone.

Yara's brother Theon speaks then. Margaery knows little of him, save that he was Lord Eddard Stark's ward in Winterfell. At least he keeps his eyes to himself. He says their uncle drinks shade of the evening, of which Margaery knows even less.

“Shade of the evening? The elixir of the Undying Ones?”

“Yes, Your Grace. He has many warlocks of Qarth training him in the dark arts. It is said he has sailed to Asshai as well.”

“Did he study with the shadowbinders?” Her queen's voice is as quiet as the night.

“I do not know, Your Grace.”

She should give more attention to their discussion of sorcerers and shadows, but she finds her eyes drifting to the tides of the sailor's hips. She aims for the Queen's attention.

“Better a woman swallow scorpions than trust the spawn of shadows,” Daenerys says. “I trust no sorcerer.”

For all accounts, Euron Crow's Eye sounds a vile man, and Margaery is quite happy never meeting him. The little lion was bad enough, and he was untrained in his cruelties.

With their enemies decided upon, discussion turns to the condition of the continent. Winter has come, as House Stark always warns, and the Crown is not prepared to provide for the people. Food reserves are not as robust as they should be, and the little folk have begun rioting in King's Landing.

There is a slim chance for conquest before the snows begin in earnest, and then mobilizing the Essosi armies will be impossible. They will have to set sail soon, or wait out the winter in Essos and let the false queen wreak havoc on the Silver Queen's people.

They must leave Meereen soon.

And the Greyjoys, she admits to herself with some distaste, will be by their side.

*

The wind is favorable today. It will be a good day to set sail.

Half the Redwyne fleet has joined them in Essos, and it had taken the better part of a month to prepare the Queen's forces for the voyage.

Margaery turns from the sea wind to face her brother once more. Of all her brothers, Loras is most dear to her. And now he is staying behind in Meereen, to hold the Bay for their Queen until the Seven Kingdoms – or six, or five, the Imp was right about that – are ruled by a Dragon once more, and other provisions can be made. Ser Barristan Selmy, the guard disgraced by Cersei before the court, who so loved Prince Rhaegar and served so many kings, has been declared the Lord Paramount and Warden of the Bay.

His face betrayed both joy and heartbreak in Council when he learned he would be left behind. But he is the only person the Queen can trust with such a mantle.

Loras is the only person Margaery would trust. Grandmother is clever, but she has grown old. Wiser, and more devious, but old. She may not survive the winter. Would Loras ever see their grandmother again?

Loras takes her hands and forces her to meet his gaze. “We will meet again.”

He is right, of course. Doubt is useless. She will sail West and aid Queen Daenerys in regaining her kingdom, and then with the Queen's leave, she will sail back to the Bay and be safe with her brother once again.

“Yes, we will,” she agrees fiercely, planting a kiss on his cheek before he gathers her up in one last, great embrace.

When he lets go, she turns on her heel and strides down the docks. She will sail on the Redwyne flagship _Arbor Queen_ , commanded by the Lord of the Arbor and the Lannister master of ships, her uncle Lord Paxter. She had welcomed him to the city when he had arrived on his galleas, the burgundy sails standing proud and tall, the once-golden oars now gleaming obsidian for their return to Targaryen allegiance. She had shown him the wares of the ancient city.

Meereen has grown on her somewhat. The stones, the many colored terraces, the foreign fruits and strange spices, the clamor of freedmen without collars. When she stands in a terrace off a high pyramid, and the wind whirls around her, she imagines it must feel something like this to fly. She will miss this about Meereen.

But it is not Highgarden; it is not home.

Daenerys has never seen Highgarden. She could bring her there, show Daenerys the great green fields surrounding the hill, the golden roses growing easy as weeds, the peaches and fireplums. The clean, white stone of the towers and the outer wall. She could lead her through the briar maze, braid golden roses into her silver-gold hair.

This is foolish, Margaery reminds herself. If she is present when such a tour occurs, she will show the Queen Highgarden as the seat of the Reach, the first kingdom of Westeros to swear fealty to her righteous claim, the likely home of her Warden of the South. The duties and title could very well go to Loras. She would certainly caution the Queen from granting such responsibilities to her lord father; he flaunts about well enough, but he is not skilled in strategy or combat. Loras may be ridiculed as the Knight of Flowers, but he has bested many men in battle and in melees at tourneys.

He could best many women if he had the heart for it.

Margaery stops.

Daenerys is on the _Arbor Queen_.

She had assumed she would ride one of her children, the great black beast named Drogon she seemed to favor. But perhaps dismounting a dragon would be difficult at sea. She should have surmised that sooner. She is becoming as foolish as her father, she thinks, shaking her head and joining her Queen and her uncle on deck.

He had been the one to insist on a marriage to the false king in a hostile keep. Her grandmother had arranged friendship with the Dragon Queen, the only person with any trueborn claim to the throne.

She could be like her grandmother, the Queen of Thorns. In King's Landing, Olenna had said Margaery could be even better than herself. She wants very much to be better. To be better than them all.

She does not want to be a queen, as she had informed that deplorable Baelish all those months ago. She wants to be _the_ queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: The comment section of this work is not an appropriate venue for degrading characters that do not even appear in this work. I will not approve comments that are not pertinent to this work. Thank you for being understanding.


	7. Dragon's Hearth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery and Daenerys return to Westeros

Dragonstone is a desolate seat of power, she thinks. The sand is grey. The stone is grey. The whole blasted castle is grey. The sparse grass is dying in the coming winter, and the wind blows in cold from the Blackwater. If she stays at Dragonstone much longer, she is like to become one of those dreadful, grey-hooded septas who is always dreary and cross.

She feels dreary and cross.

She walks the cliffside once more, clutching at her fur-trimmed cloak. The seamstresses had been working long hours to outfit them all for the changing weather, and she had been lucky the Queen had given her priority; she is unaccustomed to the cold, passing the previous winter as a young child.

There is so little to do on Dragonstone, Margaery curses. She cannot stroll through gardens or mingle with smallfolks or go hawking. She cannot even ride here, though there are scores of horses on the island. They all belong to the horselords and her honeyed words are not likely to merit her a ride.

What is she to do here? Lay out on cold stones and look on as dragons stretch their wings? She does enjoy such a view, to be sure.

Queen Daenerys has not gone out on Drogon since they arrived, too busy plotting out battles and movements and whatever else the menfolk discuss. Margaery has always believed, as her grandmother believes, it is better to render military actions unnecessary with wise words the season before. Though, of course, it is also prudent to have a well-trained force under the command of a seasoned leader.

Queen Daenerys may not be the most seasoned. Nor her armies well-trained in the ways of war, with the exception of the Unsullied. But dragons do not follow orders. No one commands them.

So Margaery does not need to worry over the war effort. Let the others sit in the war room and bicker over pincer movements and cavalry raids and supply trains. Blood-soaked battle is not the game she plays; she plays the game of thrones.

So does Cersei. So does Yara. So does Daenerys.

But Daenerys has known what it means to be the conqueror of nations, the Breaker of Chains. She can play both games. She can win.

That is the only reason Margaery is the least bit enamored with her, she reassures herself. She builds alliances with victors, nothing more. The thrum in her veins when Daenerys flies overhead or visits her after dusk with her braids undone or smiles at her with the sunlight shimmering on her skin and in her eyes...

Margaery shakes her head and marches back to the staircase leading up to Dragonstone. Any glimmer of affection she feels for Daenerys is simply her desire for greater power latching on to the most powerful person she has ever seen.

She never held any love for Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storms and unlikely claimant to the throne. The marriage was merely a political alliance, as so many marriages are. As a young girl, she was taught that her hand would offer security for herself and good relations for her family. A lion, a stag, perhaps even a wolf from the North, the man did not matter. She would do her duty and prolong her family's legacy.

She does not want her grandmother to view her as she views her son – dimwitted and all but useless. It is not enough for Margaery to be a figurehead; she must be the power behind the throne.

She shivers. Dragonstone is a dismal place, for certain. How can the sun even shine on a land where everything is so grey?

*

She joins Daenerys and Missandei for a walk to the Dothraki encampment. Even in the sunlight, the wind brings the cold into everyone's bones. She has never thought herself sharing common ground with the Dothraki, but she has as little tolerance for the cold as they do. It seems winters in the Great Grass Sea are quite mild, according to the young scribe. The horde now owns more clothing than they have ever seen, she is sure.

Daenerys moves to the men she calls her blood riders – as far as she can tell, this is what the Dothraki call their advisers. Or their queens' guards, she is not sure they make a distinction. Margaery does not care how they are addressed, as long as they can keep their khaleesi safe.

Margaery turns to Missandei. The young girl wears a fur-trimmed coat similar in cut and style to the one Daenerys wears – snow white, with grey fur and red stitching. She has noticed they often match, but she is unsure how such an arrangement came to be. This is not what she wishes to ask.

“Missandei? You know much of Dothraki custom, yes?”

“Some, my lady, by word of merchants. Ser Jorah has lived with them and may know more intricacies.” Missandei so rarely claims the respect she deserves, Margaery recognizes. She ponders the youth's confidence, her deference, her measured words so different in tone to Margaery's own.

“What is Dothraki policy on loans?” she asks, eyeing a silver.

“I am unsure of your meaning, my lady.”

“If I were to desire a horse to ride for the afternoon,” she explains. “I understand Dothraki do not accept payment for such things, as they do not value coin. Do these people trade for items they need?”

Missandei nods, but it seems the movement is in understanding, not affirmation. “The Dothraki exchange gifts. They make gifts of items or slaves to those who dwell in cities, and in time, they receive gifts in return.”

“What manner of gifts?”

“Weapons, perhaps. Salt, silver, seed.”

“What use do they have for seed?” Margaery believes they do not sow, just as the Iron Islanders refuse to grow food for themselves, preferring to raid the main land. She has only seen the horselords eat of horsemeat.

“Seed is a gift for the widows in Vaes Dothrak.”

She nods. Missandei has told her of the dosh khaleen. “And what gift would one give for a horse?”

“The horse is the source of life and strength to the Dothraki,” Missandei responds carefully. “A man who cannot ride is not a man of any worth. When a khal dies, a horse is slain so that the khal may continue to ride in death. A single horse would merit a great gift in their eyes.”

Margaery considers. It is the way of fools to exchange that which they do not have. She will have to wait.

“Why do we speak of horses?” Daenerys asks as she rejoins their party. Her eyes always glimmer after speaking to her blood riders, Margaery notices. Say what she will of the Iron Throne, Daenerys is now one who rides. She has little use for a chair.

Margaery keeps her smile polite, not enthusiastic. “It has been some time since I have gone riding. I do miss it.”

Violet eyes go bright, and harsh words leave lips that look so soft...

Margaery turns her focus to the moment at hand. One of the Dothraki is calling back to them, and Margaery is the only one who does not know the language. She understands the disparaging looks well enough.

But the Dothraki woman guides a horse near them all the same.

“May I?” she asks hesitantly.

Daenerys nods. “It is a gift to you. Will you require assistance in mounting?”

“No, thank you, Your Grace.”

It is undignified, of course, to mount without any steps, but the Dothraki will be watching, and she must do this on her own.

She mounts well enough on the flat saddle, and she does not even worry over her hair. She simply gathers up the reins – slightly different from what she has experience with, but no matter – and turns to Daenerys. “How do I say thank you?”

Daenerys gives her the most wistful smile she has ever seen. She does not know its meaning. “There is no word for thank you in Dothraki.”

It must be a sad sort of language, she thinks, one where a person cannot be thanked for all they do for another. It would hardly allow for close bonds or loyal allies.

But she sets such concerns aside for the moment. When she rides, she flies.

The horse listens well, moves under her with skill, and it is exhilarating to feel the wind against her cheeks and the water in her eyes, and when she returns to the encampment, Daenerys and her horde stare with wide eyes.

The Dothraki woman who offered her horse says something, and Missandei translates, “She wonders how you learned to ride so well. She has been told women in stone houses do not ride.”

Margaery laughs as she returns to the ground, petting at the horse's mane. “I learned to ride as soon I could walk. My father feared I would live my entire life on horseback.”

Daenerys laughs at the shock on the woman's face, and then she must bid farewell, because she starts to move back to the fortress. Then she says something to Missandei in another language – not Dothraki, perhaps the Valyrian the Unsullied speak. Missandei moves with one of the Unsullied guards, hurrying back.

“What has happened?”

“Nothing new. I asked for a moment alone with you.”

If Margaery looks down to her feet and then glances back up, knowing how men and women react to her eyes gleaming under her eyelashes, then this is not something she will confirm. “For what purpose?”

“To say goodbye.”

By the gods, this cannot happen. “Have I done something to displease you, Your Grace?” She must have let her feelings shine through. No queen needs a perversion lusting after her.

“No, no, this is not -” the Queen sighs and … pouts? “I am about to leave for battle. It may be some time before I return.”

“What battle is this, Your Grace?”

The Queen looks hesitant now. “Lord Varys has received word the Lannisters move against Highgarden. We mean to intercept them on the Rose Road, and claim for ourselves any supplies they have in their train. We will take my children, and the Dothraki will meet us in the Reach. Lord Tyrion will ride with them, as well. Missandei is to remain here with the Unsullied, and I would request that you aid her in maintaining our efforts and communications here in my absence.”

“Of course, Your Grace. It is my honor to serve you.” In whatever ways she is allowed.


	8. Fire And Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have written so much in the past week, it is unreal. I had to chop off what I had sketched out for this chapter, because it just exploded on me! Hope you enjoy :)

Daenerys returned to Dragonstone victorious and vibrant, with the blood of her enemies and barrels of their supplies. The Lannister army had carried a great deal with them, to satisfy their needs in the event of a retaliatory siege. But there had been no such siege. Daenerys had protected her home.

And now it is time for Daenerys to reclaim her own home.

She has not seen the Red Keep, of course. Everyone on the continent knows the story of the stormborn princess. When they come to conquer, it will be the Queen's first glimpse of her throne. Even Margaery has seen it, though she has never supported any person she has seen sitting on it. Has anyone? The Mad King Aerys who wanted to burn all the nobles, the fat King Robert who preferred rabbles to ruling, the little lion who barely pretended to be the son of a stag. There is another lion sitting on the Iron Throne now. Cersei, Queen Regent for her young son Tommen. He will not see the days of his reign.

Queen Daenerys will.

They have traveled to the mainland with most of the Dragon Queen's military forces. Margaery will stay far away from the actual fighting, as well as Missandei. Many of the freedmen from Essos remain on Dragonstone, with some of the Unsullied to protect them.

The Red Keep is well fortified, and well protected. Even if the rest of King's Landing falls, the Keep itself will stand for far longer. It may be a long siege. If they capture the other two hills, they may manage to claim the city for their own, but without Aegon's High Hill, the victory will not be complete. The rest of the realm will wait for the Targaryen force to triumph; only Cersei is fool enough to believe herself capable of withstanding dragons.

It is possible Daenerys will not let her children wreak havoc. Grandmother insists she should, but Grandmother is growing old, and she does not concern herself with the smallfolk as Daenerys does. Margaery was there when the Dragon Queen took Meereen; there was very little blood spilt. The blood now will be that of her own people. Margaery does not believe she will risk it.

Not at first.

Margaery will stay at camp when the sun sets tonight. Daenerys will lead her children in the opening volley soon. The siege engines are in position, to be utilized through the night, and the Unsullied who man them will follow the Dothraki screamers into King's Landing when the gates collapse. The horselords have been instructed to leave unarmored men and women living, though Lord Tyrion and Ser Jorah are not convinced they will obey this when the heat of battle warms their blood.

War is no time to worry over innocent lives, Margaery thinks. Blood will stain the Blackwater before the end.

The sun is dipping low behind their encampment. They will be leaving soon, she knows, so she moves to the far hill to see off Daenerys.

All three dragons lie on the hill. Margaery knows their names now. Drogon is the greatest of them, black as night, with eyes like blood. She does not know the nature of dragons, but Drogon strikes her as aggressive, deadly as the famed Black Dread, if not for his mother's hand. Viserion is cream and gold, as kind and as cruel as the high sun. But it is Rhaegal that captures her attention the most, named after the beloved brother of Daenerys, all jade and bronze. Margaery is not fooled into thinking him harmless, but a dragon in colors so similar to her house's may well be a sign from the Seven.

“His name is Rhaegal,” Daenerys supplies, standing close to her shoulder. “After my brother Rhaegar, who would have been king, had he bested the Usurper at the Trident.”

She knows this, of course. “Yes, Your Grace. By all accounts, he would have been a fine king, your brother.”

“Even by Stark accounts?” Daenerys asks, and there is an arc in her voice, as though this is a challenge.

Margaery is accustomed to this dance. “The South is not kind to the Starks, this is true. We will never know what thoughts occupied his mind, in the end.” She turns to face Daenerys fully.

And she stops.

Daenerys is _glorious_. Her gown is fashioned from fine Dothraki leather, as dark as the night sky, as smooth as rose petals. The leather covers much of her glowing skin, shining silver strung across her chest and topped with the likeness of three dragons roaring. Missandei's delicate skill is clearly wrought in the many braids cascading down Daenerys's back. There can be no doubt she means to conquer.

“You look … well prepared for battle, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Margaery. This night will determine much of the war to come.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.”

Margaery wishes she could look upon Daenerys forever. But the sunlight has all but faded, and she must leave soon. Daenerys recognizes this too, and looks to her dragons. She will ride Drogo, as a matter of course.

“I wish you great fortune, Daenerys.” And before she can allow concern for her neck to swallow her up, she leans close, kisses Daenerys on the cheek, and turns sharply on her heel. She turns only when she hears the great beating of dragon wings, like rolling thunder. Hidden up in the black gown, atop a black dragon, against a black sky, Daenerys's silver hair shines like the moon.

*

She watched the dragon fire, and the catapult ammunition dipped in pitch and set ablaze. She could see nothing else, and though it seemed impossible, she forced herself to rest that night. Standing watch all night would not contribute anything meaningful to the effort.

Men died through the night. She received no reports on the matter, but she knows the numbers of war. Men will continue to die. The Essosi have a saying of which Daenerys is quite fond – _valar morghulis_. All men must die.

She takes comfort that Loras is not here for the worst of the fighting. Meereen may well be safer than King's Landing.

Viserion is the first to set back down on the hill as the sun rises, knocking down a tent that is soon confirmed to be empty. His brothers join him shortly after, and Daenerys dismounts in the easy way of a woman made confident with practice.

Her gown shines in the early light. Little silver strands glow around her beaming face.

She hurries to meet Daenerys, but the Unsullied soldier has reached her first and already offers wine and hard cheese. “What news of the battle, Your Grace?” she calls.

“There is little to report. The engines have done some damage to the outer walls, but none to the gates themselves. Sure Spear and Dogkiller may alter positions slightly for tomorrow night. My children have weakened the walls along the Bay, especially near the Iron Gate. Lady Greyjoy is in position for the blockade.”

“My uncle will remain vigilant in protecting the Iron Fleet. The Crown Fleet will bear little weight against them.”

“And the false queen Cersei will not manage to slip past us to craft a new seat of power.”

Margaery asserts, “She will not try.”

“You are certain?”

Margaery thinks of Cersei's venom for those who wrong her. The way she claws for all she desires. “Casterly Rock will not be enough to satisfy her.”

“Then she is no fool.”

“When the Keep is won, you will find her on the Throne.”

“Not in her chambers?” Daenerys asks.

In her chambers, she is just a woman. On the Iron Throne, she thinks herself a queen. “Cersei is a vain woman. She will want to die a queen.”

“She may die in any way that please her. But I will not suffer a usurper to live.” Her eyes burn with an anger inherited as well as earned.

“As you will it, Your Grace.”

“Come, walk me to my own tent.” Daenerys calls out in what Margaery now recognizes as High Valyrian. “A mother must always think of her children's needs,” she explains.

Margaery sees the livestock being led to the hill and turns away. She herself may eat flesh, but she does not care to see the blood.

As they stroll to the queen's tent, Daenerys tells her of the sensation of flying, wind tugging at her braids, feeling as though she is floating in the lake the horselords call the womb of the world. Daenerys respects many of their beliefs, if she does not share them. It is only when they arrive that Margaery realizes Daenerys's leather requires extra hands.

“Your Grace. Would you care for aid with your gown?” Missandei's tent is not far, and she must be ready to wake.

“Many thanks, Margaery. I do loathe to rouse Missandei. The girl labors too long, most days. She needs her rest.”

She means for Margaery to help her with her gown. It is to her credit that she does not freeze up like Northern rivers. “As do you, Your Grace,” she says as she follows her queen into the tent.

“Are you familiar with braids?” Daenerys asks as she sits in a sturdy chair.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she responds easily. She and Elinor and Megga loved to practice the older girls' fashions. The Riverland women always had such strange contortions, they could spend all day trying to mimic them.

“Daenerys,” she reminds her. “Please.”

“Daenerys,” she repeats. “Forgive me, I do not always know what bounds separate us.”

“As with your favor at nightfall?”

At this, she does freeze. She thanks the gods Daenerys's eyes are not on hers. “Yes. As with my favor. Warriors deserve such favors before battle, do you not agree, Daenerys?” She begins with the first braid her hands reach, unwinding tresses with the flash of practiced fingers.

“Am I such a warrior?”

“I am learned in your family's history. You are not the first woman to ride into battle.” Visenya. Rhaenys. Rhaenyra. Margaery did not like those tales as a girl. She favored calmer queens. Queens who ruled on their own, queens who won their games of thrones. “And you will not be derided as a freak for the slight, like the Lady Brienne.”

“Lady Brienne?”

“Of House Tarth. Sworn shield to my late husband Renly, if you care to call him that. The marriage was never consummated.” Better not to expose the other matters. The sins of the Targaryens do not forgive the rest. She returns to the safer subject of Brienne. “She was accused for his death, but I know it to be slander. Lady Brienne then served Lady Catelyn Stark.”

“And now?”

“It was rumored she searched the land for Lady Catelyn's daughters. I know not if she succeeded. Lady Sansa at least will be easy to find. Home in Winterfell. The little lady thought she wanted to live in the South. I think she has been dispossessed of that dream, poor thing.” She feels childish, sharing whispers with a friend before bed. But there is something fun about it too, being silly during wartime. 

“Did you know her well?”

“As well as any can know a man in King's Landing. The rot and stink does not stay contained to Flea Bottom. But in my sight, she seemed sweet. Not half as naive as she had once been, thank the gods.” Margaery wishes she had seen Missandei construct the style; with the uppermost layer now down, the lower braids are hidden. It will take some time to undo the rest.

“And what of her bastard brother, Jon Snow?”

“I have not met the man, and Lady Sansa did not speak of him to me. Lord Tyrion may have knowledge of him; I believe they may have met when the Baratheon-Lannister train went North to ask Lord Eddard to be Hand.”

“Lord Eddard Stark was said to be an honorable man. Yet he was executed for treason.” There is wonder in her voice. She knows only pieces of the tale.

Margaery may not be the Lord of Whispers, but she hears things, all the same. “He learned of the lions playing as stags and aimed to have a true Baratheon on the Iron Throne. The Lannisters did not take kindly to the attempt. He lost his head for it. Half his family died trying to avenge him.” Margaery pauses. “When King Robert hired swords for your head, Lord Eddard spoke against it. You were still a child. Lord Eddard believed in protecting children.”

There is silence for a moment. Daenerys eventually responds, “Lord Eddard must have been a good Hand to the Crown.”

“He would not have served you, if given the chance,” Margaery must say. “Your father killed his.”

“My father killed many fathers. And many children. I will right all the wrongs he committed.”

“Do all young girls dream of this?” she jests.

“I did not think of him at all when I was young. My brother Viserys did. But he could remember the Keep, the Bay, the Guard. Our parents, miserable as they were, our brother Rhaegar and his wife and their children. I thought Ser Darry was my father as a girl. I was quite heartbroken to find he was merely loyal to a father I would never know.”

It is a sad tale, but Daenerys does not seem burdened by it.

“I know my father, of course,” Margaery responds. “But his focus was on our lands, and the wars, and my older brothers. I was close with Loras. We are so close in age; so close in likeness we could have passed as twins, had we wanted.”

“Growing up in Essos, Viserys always told me we would marry and carry on the Targaryen tradition of a pure line. This is not practiced by the Tyrells, is it?”

“No, it is forbidden by the Seven. Loras has no love for women. And I,” she bites her tongue. _And I have eyes for only one,_ she thinks. “And I do not begrudge him this. It is honorable to wish to wear a white cloak. It is an accomplished way of connecting our family to others. With the Lannisters removed, my family will consider other matches for me. Perhaps with Dorne, or the Vale.”

Daenerys turns in her chair, looking up to her through long lashes. “You must marry?” she asks.

“There is not much else a woman can do for her family.” Her father has always been clear on this point. Even her grandmother admits it.

“There is much you can do.”

The silence is long, but the air is warm with the torches tended throughout the night, and Margaery fancies herself comfortable to stare into violet eyes the day through.

But Daenerys has flown all night, and a queen needs her rest.

“Turn again, I need to finish your hair.”

There are few braids left, and she runs her fingers through silver to inspect her work. When Daenerys lets her head fall fully into her hands, she dreams of Daenerys arching under her lips.

She removes her hands. Imagine the predicament Loras would find himself in, having to strike down his own sister for assailing his queen.

“If you could stand for me,” she prompts quietly.

Daenerys stands and moves away from the chair. It had seemed seamless in the dying light, but the dress itself is many pieces of leather tied close to her body in layers. Daenerys drifts one hand along the hidden leather ties, and Margaery moves closer to unfasten the long sheets. She had been correct about the most important thing earlier; the gown is as soft as butter in her hands. She drapes them across the chair, for want of a more suitable space.

She has seen Daenerys's skin before. Has seen the sunlight on her arms in the spice markets of Meereen, the swell of her stomach bared by blue dresses barely strung together with ribbon, has seen her strong feet bathed by servants after walking through the dusts of the Bay of Dragons. It is not the same in the dawn, hidden away in Daenerys's private tent, her skin glowing and her curves barely masked by her thin slip.

Daenerys is beautiful, even without her dragons and her ornaments and her intricate gowns. When she turns and smiles, Margaery wants to close the distance once more and give another kiss.

“Rest well, Your Grace.”


	9. Dances With Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With fire and blood, she will take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not overly pleased with this chapter, tbh, but it's a difficult subject, and I think this is as good as it's gonna get :/ Hope you enjoy!

The city has fallen. The outlying armies surrendered after only three days, their arms have been cast down, and the soldiers have been removed from the city until the Red Keep falls. The Targaryen forces were thus able to take the lesser hills with very little blood shed. The war council is in good spirits over this victory, but Margaery knows many innocent lives will be lost in the days to come. Cersei would have filled the Keep with smallfolk, under the pretense of protecting them, in the hopes of staying the Dragon Queen's hand. Queen Daenerys will win this war, even Cersei knows this to be true, but Margaery fears there is a great price still to be paid before they prevail.

Daenerys is certain it will be worth it; Margaery does not voice her doubts. Lord Tyrion would say she has too gentle a heart for war, and she is loathe to admit the Imp is right.

But her gentle heart is in service to the Dragon Queen, and Cersei must have dipped the name in dung, so there is much to do for Daenerys in King's Landing. A young boy tells her that Cersei took all the food for her armies and the smallfolk have been starving; when she informs her queen, she sets her hands to feeding her people. It is simple enough to oversee the dispersal of food to the smallfolk; she had done something similar all those months ago to improve the little lion's standing in the eyes of the people. The poor have no need for processions or pomp; they need food in their bellies and faith in whatever pleases them. The Lannisters have never understood this.

It takes many days to move the siege engines into position, in part for the heft of them and in part because of the Lannister army's interference. The Keep is secured with far more fortifications than the rest of King's Landing; Margaery has overheard enough to know that greater trials lie ahead. She worries over food for the siege, keeping security within the ranks, keeping peace between the Westerosi and the horselords. There is much to worry over, she thinks.

With each day of negligible progress, tension rises in Daenerys. Her shoulders grow stiff. Her lips turn down, no matter the news. She looks after her dragons longingly. Margaery knows that her grandmother has told her to _be a dragon,_ and she fears the queen is tempted more and more. She must not let the queen use her dragons on her people. It will begin another dynasty of tyranny and terror, and this is not what Daenerys wishes for Westeros, she knows.

This morning, when she wakes to join her queen, she feels the change in her. Dragons are not roses; they do not bide their time to grow strong. They rush in and take what is theirs, with fire and blood. Daenerys has lost her tension. She will take what is hers.

Daenerys does not allow Drogon to fly to the Red Keep; she guides him through the streets on foot, his claws pulling up stone with every step. Margaery follows and watches the curious eyes appear in the windows as they pass. She cannot see if there is fear in their hearts. The Unsullied and the Dothraki form the greater part of the procession through the streets. They must all be ready for this, for whatever is decided.

There is a strange play between mother and dragon at the wall atop Aegon's High Hill. And then she utters the word Margaery has come to fear and respect –  _dracarys_ . Drogon unleashes flame at the gate, and the air becomes thick with smoke and debris. Then he flies off, to the direction of his brothers, and through it all, Daenerys stands strong, silver hair fanning out but the rest of her unmoved. 

On the other side of the ruined gate, a line of Lannister soldiers stare in awe. When the Unsullied begin to march forward, the Lannisters throw down their spears and swords in surrender. She calls out in Dothraki, and the horselords flood through the charred remnants into the Keep itself.

It has begun.

Margaery remains outside the Keep, guiding the innocents out to the city where they will be safe from the fighting. When bloodlust courses through the hearts of men, no one is safe. At least they are all residents of King's Landing, she thinks, so there is no concern over lodging. It will be difficult enough to find space for the horselords here in Westeros, if they even decide to stay.

With victory so close, they must think of such things. Where the Dothraki will live, how the freedmen will find trades, how the dragons will be fed when winter's stores were prepared without them in mind. The council's spats over policy no longer seem childish; they are a necessity. Soon, they will be tasked with overseeing the Realm, not just a city a world away that none of them hold dear in their hearts.

Not all of the Lannister forces surrender, she learns. Those who do not face the flame stand tall, until they are struck down. When the fighting stops, carts of bodies are wheeled out. Piles of men, who fought for what they believed in, or as they were paid to fight, and now they are dead. They had families, children maybe. And Unsullied soldiers, with no families at all to weep over them, and horselords who believe they will now ride through the night lands and would be disgraced to have someone grieve.

So much blood. So much death. They were fortunate so many of the Lannister forces decided to forsake their arms, but Margaery knows Cersei will never forsake her crown. A woman as proud as Cersei does not marry a man as boorish as Robert Baratheon without feeling she is owed something for it. And when a king's love meant nothing, she found power enough to satisfy her.

But it must end here. There can be no Lannister dynasty on the Iron Throne. It is a fertile house, to be sure, but Lord Tywin is dead, Cersei is unmarried, and her only surviving child is Tommen, a young boy with bright eyes and too much kindness in his heart to be a strong king.

At the bidding of Queen Daenerys, she joins the Queen and her guard to take the throne room. She is quietly pleased to be included for this moment, for the moment Queen Daenerys takes her rightful place on the Throne crafted by her ancestors who came to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. The scout of the Unsullied reports that the last of the white cloaks have been cut down; the lioness will be without any protector or the hope of escape.

They stop at the main doors. Margaery has never seen them closed before, having only ever visited the throne room with the full court in attendance. They stand still for a minute, then another, then Queen Daenerys nods at her soldiers, and they heave the doors open.

Margaery walks slower than the rest, Daenerys ready to call for Cersei's surrender, the Unsullied ready to defend their queen in the event of an attack by the false queen or an arrow by an assassin.

Cersei looks as Margaery has never seen her. She wears black, as she never did during Margaery's time in the capital, with strong shoulders like armor. She wears a silver crown in a new style, something strong and jagged, not at all delicate or poised like Baratheon crowns. She sits atop the Iron Throne, with little Tommen slung over her arms. Her sobs are echoing through the chamber, and a ribbon of pity tightens around Margaery's heart.

Another body to bury, Margaery thinks. The little boy could have been spared, would have been, if he had surrendered.

But Cersei, her fate is certain.

In her eyes there is the rage of the whole realm, more bitter cold than winter, more grief in her eyes than any of them have felt, and when she roars one last time, the others may hear, but Margaery cannot. All she sees is a mother without children.

When Cersei brings the vial to her lips, they do not attempt to stay her hand. The vial is tossed aside, thin glass dropping down narrow steps of steel before it shatters. Cersei bends close to her youngest child and kisses his head with more tenderness than she has ever shown the living.

When she dies, she is still on the throne.

Queen Daenerys orders the Unsullied to remove the Lannisters. Margaery does not watch the bodies be taken from the hall; she does not want to miss this moment, the moment she and Loras and their grandmother have labored towards since that night they learned the lion cub would be of no use to them, the moment Daenerys takes the steep stairs up to the seat built by her ancestors, the moment the true Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men takes back the Iron Throne with fire and blood.


	10. High In The Halls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions need to be made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have put more thought into this flinging flanging chapter than the showrunners put into the entire last two seasons. It's like, all politics, so you are hereby warned.

Queen Daenerys Stormborn, First of Her Name, gives her first order from the Iron Throne built by her ancestors – the small council must be convened. Half the Unsullied soldiers march off to find them, and the other half take positions around the throne room. They have never seen this room before, but they all act as if they have shielded their Queen here for a thousand days.

There are a thousand details to consider. What should be done about the dead, about the living, about the laws of the land and the little social courtesies in which Margaery is well-versed. She cannot advise the queen how to rebuild the city, but she knows how to encourage a populace. As she waits, she concerns herself with what can be done for newly orphaned children, for the continued dispersal of wine and grain to the hungry. The faith has grown weak under Cersei, but Queen Daenerys could restore power to the faith for the good of the people. Faith comforts many. Margaery herself has little respect for a faith that so often seeks to destroy so many in her house.

When the small council joins them in the throne room, Lord Varys stands by her side. She has never before met a man she believed when he said his duty was to the Realm. She trusts little else from the Spider. But it is Lord Tyrion who is prepared for this moment, with a trite speech and a long list of tasks they must accomplish with all haste.

The task of most import is ensuring fealty. Missives must be sent to Ser Barristan Warden and Lord Paramount of the Bay, to the Dragon subjects on Dragonstone, to all lords paramount so that they may come and swear their oaths to the Silver Queen.

The Reach is guaranteed. Her lord father Mace Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach and Warden of the South, will come at once. House Arryn of the Vale has supported the restoration; the little lord Robyn may yet grow to a powerful ally to the Crown. Letters to them are written quickly and sent off; there is no need for sugared words. And the Iron Islands, soon to be led by the … _distasteful_ Yara Greyjoy, are allied with them as well, but nothing was decided in the Bay, if the Islands would stand alone or bend the knee. The Queen says they must first purge Pyke of the sorcerer's eye.

Other regions pose their own complications. The North will stand on its own, for now – Queen Daenerys is too wise to press her claim with winter coming – but Lord Snow should be informed of the Dragon's ascension, all the same. The Riverlands, Lord Varys reports, are led by House Fray, far too loyal to the Lannisters to be left with the region, and treacherous enough, as all know, to betray guestright and slaughter the Starks. House Fray must be disbanded, the Queen rules, and replaced with the Tully heir if the Blackfish can be found. Margaery is quick to offer Tyrell bannermen for the cause, for few else can be trusted.

But the Westerlands. Lord Tyrion argues House Lannister should be allowed to remain, a proud house and ancient lineage, with a sprawling people. They still hold Casterly Rock, and it would not be an easy battle.

“I care more for right than for ease, Hand. House Lannister has wounded the Realm. Should they be spared for your love, though they do not return it in measure?”

Margaery does not look away from the desperate sorrow in Lord Tyrion's eyes. His birth stole his mother, his anger killed his father, and his love for the Dragon Queen brought the death of his only sister. He has no love for his cousins, but this is his house, and he wishes to restore its honor, just as Queen Daenerys restored her house. “What news of your brother, Lord Hand?” Margaery redirects.

Lord Tyrion shrinks into himself. “I have heard no news.”

“Nor I,” Lord Varys interjects. “I have heard no whispers of him in King's Landing for some weeks now. If he fled before the siege, he may yet be alive.”

“Are your birds well-placed, Lord Varys?” Margaery turns to him, and he nods easily.

“Indeed. They may continue to watch for him, by your will, Your Grace,” Lord Varys says. Queen Daenerys nods. “Then it shall be done.”

Margaery continues her redirection. “What of the Stormlands, Your Grace?”

“The Stormlands are to be subsumed to the Crown. The freed Essosi may settle here and choose their own lord or lady, and any remaining from House Baratheon must swear fealty to them as bannermen.”

Then the Essosi are to become Westerosi. Many freedmen must be taught the Common tongue, structures must be built to house them for the winter. Do the Essosi of the Bay have any concept of winter? Margaery does not know. Perhaps Missandei can inform her.

“And of Dorne, Your Grace?” There is a soft thrum that rings through her knowing the title is now made manifest. Daenerys is no longer the Queen Across The Sea, she is the Queen of many kingdoms, the Protector of the Realm.

“House Martell is fallen, yes?”

“Yes, Your Grace, the Red Viper's bastard children saw to that after his death,” Lord Tyrion confirms. Margaery recalls Lord Tyrion was put on trial for the death of his nephew, false son of the Usurper. The Red Viper of Dorne agreed to be his champion, fought well, and died at the hands of the Mountain, a false knight by most accounts.

Queen Daenerys does not react to this. “Are there any men from House Dayne who did not bend to the Usurper?”

“None with half the skill of Ser Arthur,” Lord Varys reports.

The Sword of the Morning was legend in Highgarden. Loras found the stories of his heroics inspiring, and Margaery for her part thought the idea of a chivalrous man fascinating, though fantastic. “House Yronwood grows strong, does it not, Lord Varys?”

“Not as strong as House Tyrell,” he says with a hint of a smile. “Yet perhaps strong enough to declare themselves a free and independent kingdom, should the Crown neglect to step in.”

“They are not a trusted ally of House Targaryen, Your Grace,” Margaery admits, “But a friendship could prove beneficial to your reign.”

“Then we must send for the lord of Yronwood, and should he bend the knee, we will see him serve as the Warden of the South.”

Margaery maintains her pleasant air as best as she is able, nodding amiably, but she feels her skin grow cold. Her lord father will not be pleased; his family has given years of service for the restoration of the Targaryen Dynasty, but he will be the first Lord Paramount of the Mander to be denied the position of Warden of the South. Cersei had attempted to gift the title to the Tarlys, but her power rested on uneven ground, and she was no true queen. Her father is not the greatest military mind, but even giving the title to Willas or Loras would have been preferable to this shame.

“And Lord Mace Tyrell will serve us as the Warden of the West. Whom among the westermen may become banner for the Westerlands? Are there any whose loyalty to the Lannisters is not assured?”

Those more familiar with Westeros share uneasy looks. Under the old lion's rule, the power of House Lannister became absolute. Cersei, as foolish and foul-tempered as she was, understood how to keep people beneath her thumb. Swyft, Prester, Payne, Clegane, they are too loyal. Houses Marbrand and Westerling are far too weak after the War of Five Kings.

They dismiss Serrett as useless, Broom as foolish, Farman as powerless, Lydden as too close to the late Lord Tywin.

“Perhaps House Lefford?” Margaery suggests. “The Golden Tooth is a good fortress, at least, and the House remained loyal to the Targaryens through many wars.”

“Neither strong nor wise, I fear,” Lord Varys returns. “What of House Crakehall?”

Margaery laughs delicately. “They are strong, I will grant you that.”

“Enough!” Queen Daenerys declares, and all eyes are on her, high on her throne, when she points imperiously at Lord Tyrion and announces, “Casterly Rock must surrender. All shall swear their oaths or die. Our Hand will take leadership of his House as is his birthright and return to King's Landing after establishing order. Any Dothraki or freedmen who care to live in the Westerlands must be given adequate space or lodging.”

If any of the horselords decide to remain here, Margaery believes, they will not adapt well to the cultures. Do the Dothraki know anything of working in mines? Of any trades, of any settlements? Or will they behave as the hill tribes of the Vale, as the the Iron Islanders of Pyke, as the wildlings north of the wall? Will the Queen stop them if they begin raiding?

Perhaps these concerns can be voiced another time, Margaery decides.

It is then decided great funeral pyres must be built for the dead. Margaery has seen a failed pyre, before; built with too little care and burned for too little time, much of the body remained. It was horrifying to behold. Following the Mother of Dragons, she does not concern herself with how they can accomplish the necessary blaze. Lord Tyrion suggests that Westerosi who supported her ascent should see to this, and Ser Jorah the knight redeemed takes the task.

Then there is the matter of the living. Many walls and homes were destroyed during the brief siege, and rebuilding efforts are paramount to winning the smallfolk's hearts now that the capital is ruled by a dragon once more. The Crown's coin will be given to all the masons in the city, and all who assist them in their work.

Next the matter of soldiers. The white cloaks are all dead, but they need Westerosi knights to replace them. The gold cloaks surrendered in large numbers, but they cannot be trusted to continue their work under the Dragon Queen. Lord Tyrion claims they are all corrupt in caring more for coin than Crown; Ser Jorah claims they should be executed for forsaking their arms and surrendering the capital; Lord Varys recalls that changes in power make traitors of many, and all in the throne room would have been decried as traitors by Cersei.

It is her best opportunity to advise mercy. “If we hold to the belief that the Westerosi smallfolk have been held captive by those with great power and little care,” Margaery puts forth, “Then perhaps these soldiers could be treated as the freedmen of Essos.” She does not care much for this argument, but she knows Queen Daenerys is partial to the view. “They could leave the capital and forge new lives for themselves, study new trades to better serve the Realm.”

“It would be quite a show of mercy, Your Grace,” Lord Varys says. He is noncommittal, but men like him so often are.

“We could extend a similar proposition to the Lannister armies,” Lord Tyrion suggests. “Have them swear their oaths before returning to their homes in the Westerlands.”

“If they refuse, they must die.”

Margaery stops herself from stepping forward, but it is a near thing. “If very few refuse, Your Grace could consider sending the traitors to the Wall to take the Black. As a gift to our neighbors to the North.”

The Queen scoffs. “Why should I gift anything to the North?”

“Friendly relations end conflicts before they begin, and have many benefits besides. Improved trade, the exchange of mining rights, an ally in time of war instead of another enemy,” Margaery replies lightly. She does not wish to overly stress the point; if the Queen slays the Lannister armies, she is within her own right. She is Queen.

She seems to consider the prospect. “Very well.” Then she switches to her native Valyrian, and Margaery cannot parse the meaning, only that Queen Daenerys is giving orders. Many Unsullied soldiers leave the throne room. “The soldiers will be brought here and then will make their choices as freed men.”

Some of the Unsullied bring chairs for the small council. Margaery takes a seat gratefully; she does not enjoy standing before sniveling men as they beg for their lives. Dozens at a time, they are given their choice. Most of the men bend the knee, swearing their oaths and agreeing to leave the capital.

Some refuse. Queen Daenerys orders them to the dungeons for the night, but she insists no shackles touch their skin. She says at dawn they may choose to die by dragonfire or to live as brothers of the Night's Watch.

Hundreds of men come before them, and it is only when the sun stains the sky scarlet that the Unsullied say there are no more.

Even then, they do not rest. They send word to Yara Greyjoy and Lord Paxter to come swear their oaths before setting the fleets west to destroy the sorcerer's ships. They send a raven to Dragonstone, calling for any freedmen who desire work in the Red Keep, and give final coin to all the servants and dismiss them from service in the Keep. They send a raven to the Citadel, requesting a new Grand Maester. The Queen declares that should the Blackfish be found, he will be her Warden of the North, as the Riverlands are the northernmost reach of the new Realm.

Then Queen Daenerys declares her masters of the small council. Lord Tyrion is of course her Hand, and Lord Varys remains the Master of Whispers. Her uncle Lord Paxter will remain the Master of Ships when he returns from conquering the Iron Islands. Grey Worm, the Queen's most trusted lieutenant, agrees to serve as the captain of the Queen's Guard, and Ser Jorah will serve on the council as an adviser. She says there will not be a Master of Coin for some time, as they will all take stock of the Crown's finances together.

Queen Daenerys calls Margaery's name. Says she will serve as the Master of Laws. Just as Renly served for his brother, she knows, when he and Loras were still enamored with each other.

And Missandei of course will sit on the small council as well, serving her Queen with no title save her own name. Missandei has told her this name was denied her for many years. Living as a slave for so many years, she never would have believed she could have all this – soft gowns, delicate jewelry, choice food, and safety guaranteed by the Mother of Dragons.

Margaery had not believed the Realm could have all this, but the Lannisters are overthrown, and the monarch is not a cruel child or a man eaten up by wine and fury, but a strong woman with a kind heart.

Queen Daenerys dismisses the council for the day. Most of her advisers have lived in the Red Keep before, her guard already have the barracks prepared for them, and of course the Queen will claim the royal chambers.

They all move to the small council chambers. Lord Tyrion takes the many steps to the Hand's rooms. Margaery has stayed in the Keep before, when her family had hoped to marry her to the little lion, but the rooms Cersei had given House Tyrell all those years ago were in a tower that has suffered damage in the siege.

When the others hide away in their chambers, Margaery continues walking, and when the Queen turns to face her guard, she sees Margaery still close.

“Would you care for aid with your gown, Your Grace?” she offers without thinking. But the Queen has agreed before, and she does require aid, and Margaery has no other pressing concerns.

“Many thanks, Margaery.” The Queen steps into her chambers, and Margaery follows.

The chambers have not been redone in Targaryen splendor yet; it has not been a priority for the council to remove all traces of the Lannisters from the walls. There are finely wrought lions all around the room, red and gold linens on the bed, golden chalices with lion manes on little tables next to bottles that must have held wine. Cersei must have stayed here with her son, Margaery thinks, and now they are dead, but Margaery and the Queen, they are alive.

The Queen is wearing another leather gown, this one tightly wound about her with detailed stitching to mimic dragon scales.

“Shall I begin with your gown or your hair, Your Grace?”

Queen Daenerys turns to look up at her, a slight smile on her lips and a slight rebuke in her eyes. “You may begin with my gown. And as I have told you before, you may call me Daenerys.”

“Daenerys,” she repeats back, a quick flicker of her eyes in apology. Margaery sets to the task with confidence now; she has learned some of the Dothraki fashion. “Perhaps only in private, though?”

Daenerys lifts her arms and leans with Margaery's movements easily, letting the gown fall easily as water. “Perhaps that would be prudent.”

Perhaps Margaery has grown weary of being prudent, she thinks. “I would ask something of you then, Daenerys.”

“Of course,” she responds, twisting to face her. There is a careful look in her eyes.

Margaery draws in a long breath and reminds herself that this will not end her life, will not ruin her place in this reign. It can be innocent, if Daenerys wills it to be so, but Daenerys cares too much for the imbalance of power she carries to propose anything that could be considered corrupt. “Might I stay here? With you?”

“...Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So who's your ideal small council for Dany? :)


	11. Spoils Of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War changes everything.

Their eyes connect as surely as stars guide sailors, but Margaery does not want to think of sailors on this night, nor the cold laying thick upon the city but carefully kept away by the generous fire roaring in Daenerys's chambers, nor anything besides the glow in Daenerys's eyes as they slide away from her own and down her body slowly.

Margaery is seized by the regret that she dressed in a conservative manner this morning. It would be easier if she were in one of her daring gowns, cut halfway to her navel, shoulders bared, something tight enough to make men lick their lips at the sight of her.

She steps forward. “You are my Queen,” she begins. “The sun itself would stop burning at your word.”

There is something burning in those vibrant, violet eyes. When Margaery reaches to the laces keeping her furs in place, she knows that the flame is desire. Daenerys gives no word.

Daenerys kisses her as a storm kisses a cliffside, crashing into her over and over until her head spins. Her skin is hot to the touch, and perhaps Margaery should not be surprised by this, but she is all the same, the way Daenerys's skin is so warm and so welcoming.

She tosses aside her furs and presses closer, closer, until Daenerys is pressing her against the linens on the bed. When her slip is peeled away, Margaery does not feel the cold, yet she shivers all the same.

When Daenerys mounts her hips just as she mounts dragons, Margaery's breath catches in her chest. Violet eyes cling to her, and Margaery draws one warm hand close. It is the only invitation Daenerys needs to ravish her. Hands skimming over her teats and her hips, lips leaving fire all over her skin, silver-gold hair teasing her back into arching.

Daenerys still wears her slip and smallclothes, but the moistened fabric clings to her curves. Margaery reaches up to fondle a breast, but Daenerys grasps her wrist and pins it to the bedding. She gasps her name, and Daenerys leans close and plucks another kiss from her mouth. “Dany,” she corrects, “Call me Dany when we are like this.”

“Dany,” Margaery repeats back to her.

Dany clutches at her legs with one hand, holding one up from the bed. She starts to ride Margaery's thigh, and oh, Margaery will never be able to see her mount a beast again without thinking about this moment.

Dany, Dany has won her war, but here, Margaery is winning, because she never wants to leave this bed again.

*

“Meereen,” Margaery answers honestly. She could spin a falsehood, of course, but what good would it do to lie to her queen about the circumstances of her attraction? “Our walks through the markets.”

“For many months.” Her voice holds a strange tone.

Margaery turns to face her bedmate then and does not allow herself to be distracted by bare skin and strong legs, nor the strangeness of not knowing if she speaks to her as lover to lover or subject to queen. “Does this cause you concern?”

“No!” she assures. “No, but I do worry over my own ignorance. I had thought...”

Margaery props herself up on an elbow and flits her over her shoulder. Missandei's braids stand strong in silver hair, and for a flash, she feels envy; her own hair will be disastrous to handle the coming morning. “What is it you have thought?” She drifts her free hand along her side. Violet eyes follow the motion, and hope is not lost.

“I thought I imagined the looks. I know the Faith of the Seven does not condone what it calls perversions, and I know you to be an honorable woman.”

“The Seven has not seen you mount a dragon,” she rebuts lightly before teasing, “Though given the chance I would honor you again.”

Dany gives a small smile and catches at her hand, plants kisses while their eyes latch onto each other. “Do you remember the day you rode the horse on Dragonstone?”

She does not know the connection, but she answers, “Of course.” It had been vivid and exhilarating, exactly what she needed on that dreary rock, and it had only been possible because of Dany. The Dothraki would never have given a horse to a Westerosi woman asking for charity.

“That is when I knew.” She kisses another finger, tongue wet and warm and wanting. “You are a glorious rider.”

Margaery blossoms at the praise. She wishes she could ride Dany, but she believes Dany's blood is still too warm from battle to allow it. Another day, perhaps.

They kiss again, softly at first. Then they pour their passions into it, and they are rocking on their sides, like ships at sea.

“I was so jealous of Lady Greyjoy in Meereen,” she admits against Dany's cheek, breathless enough to damn the consequences.

“Whatever for?”

She feels her face grow sour, but Dany seems curious and confused. Perhaps she only knows to recognize the gaze of men. “She came bitten from salt and stone, offering favors deserving the sweetness of honey and roses. I did not care for how she looked at you,” Margaery confesses, leaning back up to kiss those lovely, full lips.

“And how did she look at me?”

“She looked as if she wished to know,” another kiss, “If you tasted of the sea.”

Dany smiles, as if preparing for a jest. “And do I?”

Margaery slips a hand down to Dany's hip. “Should I taste you?” It can be a jest if Dany wants it to be. Dany's silver eyebrows jolt. Then she gives a small nod.

Margaery slips between her legs.

*

Margaery thinks they should stay in this bed forever. She tells Dany as much.

“I can hardly rule over Westeros from my bedchambers.”

“Surely, one of your ancestors must have attempted it,” Margaery argues, finally slipping into the bed properly. She would offer to sneak out to her own chambers, but she has not been given any; Dany can decide how to handle the rumors. For now, Margaery wants only rest. A thought sparks. “One can only imagine how many members of your family have fucked in this room.”

“Margaery!” Dany exclaims.

Margaery shrugs. “I show reverence in septs, not bedchambers.” The Red Keep has stood for centuries. Dozens of Targaryens have slept in these rooms, often with each other. It is a crude but honest curiosity. 

Dany grimaces. “I do not care to think of my ancestors in this way.”

“Very well.” Margaery stretches, long and slow, settling down to sleep.

Then Dany is on her, mouthing at her jaw. “Let us think of something else.”

Margaery smiles and kisses her again. They finally rest when the sun starts to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! I appreciate the kindness of subscribers, commenters, and kudos-givers more than you know.
> 
> Stay safe and take of yourselves!


	12. Growing Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In peace, the Realm must rebuild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little sickly sweet, but I like sickly sweet endings!

Margaery wakes to warm lips on her own. Dany whispers for her to stay in bed and rest, and Margaery agrees, already slipping back into slumber.

When she wakes again, the sun is high in the sky, but even this is not enough to take the bitter chill out of the wind. She dresses herself, slowly, only a little sore. She struggles with her hair; it has been some time since she has been responsible for her own style. But Margaery accomplishes the small task and sets off to the throne room.

When she was in this fortress last, she recalls, the Lannisters ruled over the Baratheon throne. Spies listened behind every closed door, and she had taken to hosting a party of girls and septas wherever she went. She cannot resort to such diversions now; at every opportunity, she must prove the loyalty of her house, not the innocence of her person.

Her Queen seeks a private audience with her after court. Margaery acts as she always does in her presence, soft-spoken but not simpering.

When the Unsullied leave the room, Margaery speaks first, before Dany can finish stepping close to her body. “We must keep this secret.”

“Must we?” Dany's passion seems to wilt.

“You have only just retaken the Realm,” she explains easily. “Any perceived weakness will destroy alliances before they are made.”

This does not please Dany. She holds herself stiffly. Her eyes are wide as she tries not to blink. For a flash, she truly does look the dragon.

Margaery lets her voice soften. “Your hold over the throne is precarious. There are many that would decry this as a perversion, as proof that the gods wish for you to be overthrown. We should not be so ready to risk this. Let the Realm learn to love you. Let your hold grow strong.”

Dany does not seem happy with this, but she still asks Margaery to her chambers that night.

The weeks pass in flurries of snow and Southron banners, lords and ladies from across the Realm traveling to swear fealty to their new and returned Queen. Through it all, Margaery stands to her left, speaking softly in her ear at times, sharing secrets and jests. Lord Tyrion writes to them often, giving reports of the Westerlands. There was some trouble with House Payne, but he claims he has settled the matter. Margaery is grateful for his absence, of those sharp eyes that see so much. Lord Varys, she is sure, will not betray his Queen's secrets.

They receive a letter from Pyke, saying the Iron Islands are reclaimed in the Dragon Queen's name. The uncle is dead, and the new Lady Greyjoy will remember her vow to end the raids on the mainland. Margaery's own uncle will return to serve Queen Daenerys on her small council.

They receive a letter from the North, thanking them for the men they sent to the Wall. An ally is preferable to open war. Let their men rest, let the city rebuild, let them feed their citizens and forge friendships.

Queen Daenerys, First of Her Name, has no family. She has no one whom she can trust implicitly, no one to settle in advantageous matches, no one to send on important envoys. She must leave her allies behind as she moves, must suspect everyone of malice and subterfuge, must trust that loyalties can be earned without marriages.

She has only herself, and she can only marry once.

Not that she has many options. The Dornish cannot be trusted for a match, considering the state of the last Targaryen-Martell union. The North would not welcome a proposal, as they would know it only as an acquisition of their lands once more. Most of the lords and ladies of other regions supported Robert's Rebellion, and the Queen who restored the Targaryen line cannot associate herself with them so closely. That leaves …

Margaery supposes that leaves House Tyrell. Staunch supporters of the Targaryens for many years, rich and powerful, demanding much respect from neighboring families. Loras cannot, of course, if for no other reason than he remains Queen's Guard half the world away. But she has other brothers, and uncles and cousins besides.

Could she behave as Loras did all those years ago? Could she stay in the shadows as a sibling lies next to her lover? Loras has never told her how it felt, and he is not here to ask now.

It is a petty distraction; her father will find her a match to the advantage of her family, and she will rise to the occasion, just as her dear grandmother has taught her.

Though with Daenerys outmatching her in both beauty and power, her prospects are slightly dimmed, Margaery must admit. Many men will not settle for second-best.

After many moons, Lord Tyrion returns from the Westerlands, now assured that the region will stand without his constant attention. He seems to have aged many years in such a short time, but he stands taller, Margaery notices, seems calmer. He drinks less.

The rebuilding efforts of King's Landing have been fruitful in his absence. Homes have been rebuilt, the fortress walls repaired, and they have taken an accounting of grain and coin. They have enough to last many years of winter, thank the gods. The Dothraki eased such concerns considerably when most returned to the Great Grass Sea. Some of the Essosi freedmen joined them, but many have settled in the Crownlands.

There are few matters to discuss in council, and no bids for the court today. Queen Daenerys announces that she will spend the day at the docks among the small folk.

Margaery decides she must make the most of this, in the hopes that the commoners may yet recall her from all those years ago when she arranged for them to be fed. It may well inspire adoration for the Queen, to be seen with the woman who gave them some small comforts before the Battle of the Blackwater.

“Lady Margaery, see to the gardens. I am told there has been progress, and I know your family to have the finest taste in flowers.”

She bows to her Queen's compliments and sees to the task as soon as the Queen leaves the throne room. She does not allow herself to feel spurned.

Perhaps it is best that she is not seen at the Queen's side too often. There are those who suspect her brother's relationship with Renly – Joffrey saw to that much – and she must not taint the image of the Queen already on such unsteady footing. At least the High Lords and Ladies have all bent the knee, excepting the North, and the small folk care more that their roofs are thatched and their bellies kept full, but it will be many years before any hint of impropriety can be risked.

The Queen has heard truth; there has been much progress on the gardens, to counter Cersei's negligence and the effects of dragonfire so near. Somehow, the gardeners have seeds for winter flowers, and seedlings have already sprouted. Even in horrible matters, there is beauty to be found.

“Margaery,” she hears, and she feels as if her feet have been swept out from under her.

“Loras,” she breathes, whirling to face him.

She flies into her dearest brother's arms, and he is spinning her, smelling of spices and the sea. When she stretches back to look upon his face, he is tanned, and his hair has grown long. She strokes across his jaw as she asks, “When did you return? Why did you not write to me?”

“My Queen sent for me. Did she not inform you?” They turn, and it is only now that Margaery sees Daenerys in the gardens, flanked by two of the Queen's Guard.

“A queen should not be without her guard,” Daenerys says simply, but her eyes hold many words.

_Thank you_ , Margaery mouths to her.

Daenerys smiles back.

On this night, Margaery presses her thanks to every inch of Dany's skin.

*

Daenerys declares in front of her guards that her rooms are too cold for her skin, so accustomed to summer in Essos, and she must have Margaery as a bed companion, just as Margaery had insisted on having several when she was betrothed to the lion cub. After this, they spend every night in each other's arms, and it is not always a hungry thing. At times it is only a comfort.

One morning when Margaery wakes, Daenerys has left the warmth to stand at the balcony overlooking her Realm. There is a tension in her back that worries Margaery. “Dany?”

She turns slowly, and her face is sweet and somber. “I want you to be my wife.”

“Dany,” she sighs, setting herself upon the pillows. “You know I cannot.” They can never be wed. She stretches her arm across the linens and finds no warmth. Dany must have stood at the balcony much longer than Margaery first believed.

“We live in a new world, one of our own making,” Dany insists. “All of our dreams have come true. I have brought dragons back into this world, I inspired Dothraki to cross the poison water, I sit on the throne of my ancestors. And you...” Dany's eyes grow impossibly soft. “You do not fear my dragons, you respect them, you understand the horselords like so few Westerosi care to, you have brought me to the Iron Throne. You should sit by my side, share my bed with no artifice, be my queen.”

“I – but – this,” Margaery cannot make sense of this. She has resigned herself to being torn away to make a match with an Yronwood or an Arryn, some fool she must lead to glory. Dany offers a romance from the songs; she would be a child to trust such things. “Who shall inherit?”

“The wheel is broken; Missandei can have the Throne when I have gone.” Dany slips back into bed with her, grasps at her hands, at her hair, kisses at her jaw. “Marry me, Margaery. Marry me and be queen.”

It is all she has longed for, but it feels like a dream, Dany and the dawn. Yet Dany's reign seems so often a dream; even in Essos, Margaery had not dared trust they would win, in truth.

“Lord Varys will have my head.”

Dany seems confused by the remark.

“His birds will sing of nothing else for weeks,” she explains, and she kisses Dany then, surging and sweet, and oh, her family will fuss and the High Lords will rage and the septons will lament, but she is happy and Dany is happy, and the Queens' Guard will keep them safe.

The small council does not curse the news, though her uncle no longer looks at her as warmly as he once had. The Spider's birds alert them to those in the Red Keep who must be sent out, and the Unsullied and the white cloaks watch them both with careful attention. Loras is her shadow now, and he teases her twice more than she jested over Renly. He does not seem to begrudge her this great fortune.

Margaery's crown is delicately shaped, fine roses among thorns. Their smiths set straight away to crafting necklaces and pendants for her to wear over gowns more intricate than any she has worn since seducing the false Baratheon. She has offered, of course, to wear the Targaryen colors and fashions, but one glance from her lady wife has her retreating to the gentler colors she has known all her life.

Colors she shares with Rhaegal. She has not yet dared to ride him, but she knows Dany has seen the longing in her eyes, and on those nights, Dany is pure passion.

The Realm rests, recovers from years of raids and rebellion. Lord Varys's birds inform them of troubles before they develop into dangers. The Stormlands subsumed to the Crown have squabbles as the Essosi organize themselves into houses, but the Baratheons, weak as they are, do not challenge their new neighbors; Lord Tyrion rules the Westerlands with more wisdom and compassion than any expected of him; Dorne finds a new pillar of strength. House Greyjoy sends their regards, and Lady Greyjoy gives suggestions more brazen than should be written in an official missive to one's monarch; Margaery supposes she will forgive the slight. The North does not disturb the Riverlands, and until the winter passes, none shall risk war. Daenerys has her bloodlust, but Margaery has prudence and patience.

Together, they will grow strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I sat down to write this story, I never imagined it would take so long to write, nor that the reception would be so kind and encouraging. I so sincerely thank you all, especially those subscribed readers who would give me little nudges to continue. I hope you enjoyed :)


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